


Laufey's Pride

by Holdt



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Asgard is a fucked up place, Frost giants are not savages, Internalized racism, M/M, Other, Racism, history is relative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:04:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holdt/pseuds/Holdt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laufey's pride has ever been his downfall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Light of Jotunheim

**Author's Note:**

> Had this turning round in my head last night and decided to try to put some of it down for posterity. This may come across as Odin and/or Asgard bashing, but keep in mind that it is written from the view of Odin's enemy and is a fair bit of fanon. Not quite AU, but definitely not the canon-compliant POV of the comics or the MCU.
> 
> Hope you enjoy. Comments and concrit welcome.

It has long been known on Jotunheim that magecraft is a gift of the Ancestors blood, a strengthening of spirit, and a gift that, like anything received from one’s ancestors, must be repaid in kind.  The mages of Jotunheim were some of the strongest and most brightly burning in the Nine Realms, and for that reason, it was believed that the cost of that fire, their bright burning, was to keep a part of them forever entwined in the spirit world. Warriors flexed their bulk, their height and strength, their horns. Mages sharpened their wits, honed their spirits to heights of power which dwarfed the natural ice-affinities that all were born with, spoke to the unknowable and Ancestors alike and if they were well-treated, shared their speakings with others so that all might learn. Mages knew better than to feel shame at their small stature. The light shone, rippling through the ice with the heartbeat of their people. The balance was kept.  
  
Naturally, few souls had the courage to enter into life, the world, with such a physical disadvantage. Jotunheim had never been a realm overrun by those with magic sparking in their veins, not like those of Alfheim, who all carried some measure of magics. Nor even like those of Vanaheim, where at least half the population had some drop of the gift. The Jotnar believed that being born to magecraft was a choice, made in the spirit world before birth, a choice given to all and accepted by only a handful each generation. Thus mages were sacred to the Jotnar, tied to the rhythm of the odd seasons and the demands of the Ancestors. Chained to the deep woven rules of their world, their influence matched only by the will of the one who sat the throne and wielded the Casket of Ancient Winters. The Casket itself was yet another physical manifestation of spiritual meddling; Ymir’s frozen soul commanding his people down the ages through forcing their reliance on him to continue shaping their world. Thin as the gap that seperated Jotunheim from the blaze of Muspelheim and the eldrich darkness of Niflheim in the vastness of space, the Jotnar too lived day to day on the knife's edge between the physical and the metaphysical. 

Trade and commerce boomed, Jotunheim at the height of her glory, renowned throughout the realms for their artistry and skill at storytelling, for their supplies of hardwood and softest, deep furs. So too, for their reserve when trading, for their quick jibes and the richness of their songs, rituals and drums. Marriage between the realms was not uncommon, and all prospered well.

When the child slipped from Laufey’s flesh on a wave of heat and pain, Laufey felt pride. The child was small, eyes gleaming red as Aesir blood, even then with merriment. He lit a dangerous warmth in Laufey’s breast and so Laufey named him Loptr. Farbauti bared white teeth at his sentiment and doted on the babe. It seemed to Laufey that an even brighter age was about to begin.  
  
When Jotunheim’s need for fertile croplands and Laufey’s incursion into Midgard stewed troubles which turned to war with his cousin, Laufey’s heart hardened into hatred. Odin, called All-Father, Borrson, Borr-killer, called Kin-Slayer, called Oath-breaker; Odin who was but a lusty breath in Bestla’s perfect blue ear in better times; Odin who was but a bit of filth from Borr’s thighs in a time when not-yet-king Laufey was called Nál and had marveled at the beauty of the third age, and who had taken all that was glorious in Jotunheim’s people and culture and stolen away to bastardize it into what he now called Asgard. This man Odin followed Laufey’s defeat to Jotunheim to cement his victory in arrogance and the mockeries of his brand of mercy.

Farbauti, who was of the strongest of warriors, Laufey had always delighted in watching battle. Farbauti, Laufey lost sight of in the melee, found after, wreathed in blood and snow.  
  
Loptr was hidden away in the holiest of holies, close to the breath, the word and will of Ymir himself.  
Both were taken.  
Mages too, died in droves from the shock of feeling the ancestors muzzled.  
One eye was a poor trophy to keep, but it served to remind Laufey of the lie that was pride and the illusion that was peace.  
  
Now Laufey and all of Jotunheim fell into the Great Mourning, a winter not of flesh but of the spirit, while their world died around them and the splendor that was could not be rebuilt. Parties of young foolish noblemen from Asgard came to terrorize and hunt Jotnar like animals, to mock and spit on them. To break their bones and take what was not promised. To leave a trail of half-blood children and shame in their wake. Odin allowed the desecration, the _abuse_ to continue.  
  
Jotunheim, like Laufey’s heart, grew hard with hatred. The Ancestors howled with the winds from endless Ginnungagap. Slowly, Jotunheim became a wasteland of death, and the Aesir taught their children that it had always been so.

The light died.  



	2. Twist the Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laufey is no fool.

Though Jotunheim has been cut off from travel to other worlds, trade is a common language. Not all are as foolish as the warrior-class Aesir, and soon a swift black market of commerce springs up. The artisans of Svartalfheim, Alfheim and some brave souls from Vanaheim dare to defy the edict of the so-called All-Father, and continue to travel to Jotunheim by whatever means they can obtain. They are, after all, as oppressed in their own ways as Jotunheim has been, though none has been taken so low. They bring both necessities and luxury items and keep their wares far from the cursed runes of the Asgardian bifrost site. Sometimes they don’t return and whispers spread of the probable punishments doled out by the Golden Throne to those who ignore Asgard’s ideal of ‘peace’. The Alfar poets come and trade many tales, most of them so florid with riddle and symbology that truth is often quite relative. It was never wise to take what they said at face value in any case, as any well-taught child could tell.  
     
   So Laufey has no mind nor care for these whispers when they spread. He sits deaf and silent to the stories until he hears of  the Odin _sons_ ; to tales of the elder Golden Prince and the younger Silvertongue. It does not escape those of Jotunheim’s notice that where Odin had but one son before the war’s end, now Odin claims _two_. _Two_ sons and yet Odin, always leading the charge. Always in the thickest of the battles. _Two_ sons, yet even the licentious Alfar whispered of the scandal; the second Prince looked nothing like Odin. The second Prince was tall by Alfar estimate, slender yet deceptively strong. Dark haired. Leaf-eyed. Their poet spoke of him in appreciative tones, used filthy words in their liquid tongue to describe his grace that Laufey had no desire to hear. She (Laufey is _mostly_ certain she is female, in any case) shared that the second Prince was clever and quick, a knife in the darkness. That his affections were often as deadly as his temper. She said that he had the heart of an Alfar and so he often ran afoul of troubles; blessed with an overabundance of both wit and magic as he was. The second Prince, the sly-eyed Alfar said deliberately, _burned_ with magic.  
     
   Their poet was even so bold as to twist the subject, to begin speaking of the eldest Odinson (as though she thought Laufey wanted equal knowledge, when she _knew_ he did not). The Alfar grew cruel-eyed and laughed as they spoke ugly rumors of how foolish the golden son was, how gullible and animalistic, a hairy brute, un-cultured despite his station and uncaring of the same - an Odinson in truth. Yes, an _Odin_ son for truth, they laughed, but no Friggason. They sought to deflect Laufey’s anger by showing their trust in speaking these words on Jotunheim. They sought to share in his rage at the fetters of Asgard, and Laufey, he wanted nothing more than to crush Alfar skulls and watch blood like star-shine bleed out.  
     
   Let it not be said that Laufey was without self-control. Through the torrent raging in his ancient blood, he most assuredly did _not_ crush the tale-teller’s skull for their well-informed mockery. Nor did he bring retribution on them for their audacity in using his Utgard dialect of 'burned’,  by refusing them hot foods while they supped - though poetic, the opportunity to take pleasure in their discomfort would have paled in the face of their refusal to speak further. It was clear that the Alfar knew something of how this second Prince came to be, yet their favor for him was equally plain.  
     
   Laufey remembers well and fondly how Bestla’s strength shined, how she could take on form and appearance of other races at will. How when pale and pink, her hair was the color of the void and her eyes were chips of Svartalf jade. Laufey knows the value of informants, and knows further the value of true information from the Alfar. Though their mockery stings, it is their way. He will not spit on his own hospitality simply to assuage his honor. He plies the Alfar with warm fermented drink and warmer furs, orders more fish set to the fires and listens with the rest of his people in attendance.  
     
   They have _renamed_ him Loki, the lock, the ending. Odin and his Vanir witch have stripped the protections of truth from his child and _renamed him_. Truly Odin’s viciousness knew no bounds! In the renaming, by Jotunheim custom they have unmade and _re_ made him, taken the truth of nature Loptr earned by his emergence into the world and stripped him of it. This fact makes it obvious that they could not have told the child of his true lineage. Indeed, they _have_ locked him into their deceptive reality of his true nature and quite possibly ended any chance the child had at feeling whole or one with his origin. Laufey prays this is not so and mourns anew. Even the lowest prisoner of war is free to keep his name.  
   
   Laufey wonders if his child has heard the song of the Casket, if he ever pined for crisp air and deep drifts. He wonders how his child fared in the burning Asgardian summer; whether he grew ill, strapped and laced into layers of Aesir fashion; if they knew how to ease his pain; if he had any surcease or cool place to rest from the relentless sun. Did his child yearn for the spicy scent of Ash needles and wonder why they plagued his sleep? Did he still smell of Jotunheim? Was he sickly, fed on an Aesir diet of  red meats and over-sweet grains? Was he mocked for craving fresh fish and fruits? Did he thrive physically? True, the Alfar found him fair, but they were notoriously perverse at the best of times. Notoriously slippery in word and deed.  
     
   Laufey wonders if he has been lied to twice-over, and curses himself for wishing to see the child.  
     
   He wonders what stories they told his son, and what they tell him now. Perhaps they have told Laufey’s child that he was named for the end of the war...or some other such sweet sap. His own child, raised in the halls of his enemy and doubtless fed tales of his true father’s monstrosity alongside Vanir mother’s milk. Laufey knows well the Kin-Slayer's talent at small humiliations, and mastery of underhanded mind-warping. He has seen the civilizations of Jotunheim laid low, made a proud and industrious people despair in less than five generations. Laufey wishes he could  _not_ imagine Odin's results with a defenseless child. This cruelty of Odin’s design is unbearable, and Laufey-king knows it to be intended as his true punishment for challenging Asgard’s supremacy. Laufey's shame in being unable to reclaim what is his strikes deeper than any sword. He is ashamed to be glad that he cannot hear Farbauti's spirit cursing him for this weakness.  
     
    Laufey nourishes his hatred, feeds it on scraps of rumor and the horrors that came whenever he tries to sleep. Wants to believe that his child is (was?) treated well, that Loptr lives un-wronged and in the light of what Loptr must believe to be his home. Laufey, however deeply wounded he was, is still not fool enough to believe his hopes. There was only one reason why Odin would raise a son of Laufey to think himself equal to the heir of Asgard. Only one reason why Odin has laid his name and sigil on the royal line of Jotunheim. War had not truly destroyed the line of ascension - _this_ subtle poison though, this appropriation and remolding, would forever ruin it and bring Jotunheim under full control of the house of Odin.

 Failures bring their own form of wisdom. The Norns have not been kind to Laufey or his people, but Laufey has lived many ages. Without fail, he sees always the same pattern. Absolute control ever gives way to stagnation and madness. Laufey resettles nearer the old trade site, so as to be closer to what fate destiny brings. Laufey is unsurprised to see the bridge open on a night when known secessionists have infiltrated Asgard. When he sees who is among the arrivals, though his bearing is controlled, Laufey wants to laugh.


	3. Before a Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One last jest.

   Rumors run like fire in the world. Thor, first fool-Prince of Asgard, is banished for daring to speak treason to his father. Loki, the dark knife, holds the throne and Gungnir both. Odin, that snake of ages past, lies sleeping, recharging the power he steals from the roots of Yggdrasil, until he can rise and pretend to immortality again. This is not entirely displeasing to Laufey.  

   Loki, now King, returns. He brings no guard and no visible weapons. He is a weapon, and Laufey has a mind to think on what has caused this new brittle sharpness, this darkness in the now-king’s eyes. _Ah_. They were foolish then, thinking they could hide the truth without consequence.  

   Laufey watches his Loptr, his child, first Prince of Jotunheim and second Prince of Asgard bare his teeth at the life-giver he never knew. Watches his child mock their desolation and despise their visage. Watches indifference laid over anxiety blanketing doubt and a deeper panic. Laufey sees his son strut and smile with hatred in his eyes, Aesir hauteur in his every breath, and knows that while the fruit falls not far from the tree, also does it not defend against the worms waiting at journeys end.  
  
   Laufey’s snarls at the rank blasphemy that speaks before him, curls his lip and shares in that illusion of a smile that is bared teeth and blade-edge grin. Finds it ironic how like observing his own self it is, and knows that any son of his loins would find it equally amusing.  
  
   Odin, faithless son of a faithless son, has twisted Loptr into this Loki, this being with so little regard for his own power that he needs seek his nature in proving that he is even more bestial in physical victory than the man who took him away. Surely this Loki had never been allowed to touch the Casket in times past, but Laufey is no fool. Laufey sees the truth in the lies and the lies in truth. Even buried in Aesir glamour and deception, his child is beautiful. His child is _strong_. His child...is thirsty for whatever vengeance he can take for what has been made of his life and of himself.  _His child_. Laufey gives the command for his honor guard to kill the Prince of two worlds and lifts a hand to deny the order in a mere hand-span of heartbeats.  
  
   As if any Jotun would dare truly lay hands to Laufey’s get, obvious as is is from his stature and power, who and more-so _what_ he is. As if the Aesir were ever whelped that bore the scent of deep drifts and carried the music of Ymir in his very bones. The very idea is laughable, though the pretense is necessary. _Oh yes_ , they all see him well now.    
  
   Laufey affects boredom and listens. Listens to the so-called offer of alliance and  observes the lying eyes that boldly meet his own. Knows what he would do in Loki’s place; knows what will be proposed before it is spoken and forces the seeming of surprise and greed when his son offers the Casket that cannot be seen but whose presence swamps Laufey’s mind. Laufey sees the shape of how things must be if Jotunheim is to have any hope for ages to come.  
  
   The truth in this lie is bitter as both their hearts. This sacrifice is one which will destroy them both, but only Laufey bears the burden of knowing the depths of what will be paid. Only Laufey, and perhaps the Vanir witch Odin also stole to cement his kingship. Death of one to save the lives of all. The soul of one, to return heart to the many. For his beloved Loptr, a stain that will never wash clean and a hunger for the death of kings which will never be satisfied.  
  
   There is no better option. Laufey-king must seem to bend. Only in showing his own weakness can he ensure his heir’s strength. The ghost of Nál in Laufey delights in the opportunity for one last great jest before his end. One last bit of fun, to rival and eclipse all that Odin Kin-Stealer has achieved.  
  
   Laufey sees the shine of Ymir's spirit in the hollow smiles and jeering offerings his child brings to bear. He smells the rotten opulence of Asgard twined in the unending boughs of Jotunheim's heart and he knows that his own day of reckoning is come. His failures have been few, but _devastating_. Laufey sees that if he does nothing, as has become his custom of late, his child will be lost again.  
  
   So Laufey gives his first and last gift to his child, his beloved Loptr. He hardens his heart against the agony that flows in his child's wake and he claims him runt, worthless, cast out. He does not explain that it is the Prince of Asgard to whom he speaks, and not the Prince of Jotunheim. Laufey-king gives Loki the bitterest of lies to whet his taste for destruction, he corroborates Odin's duplicity and surrenders himself to the will of the Ancestors. Laufey ensures that the heart of Jotunheim will answer to a new master. It is simple.  
  
   He allows the Aesir to believe that he has abandoned his pride. He humbles the throne, to take aid from the agent of a known enemy. He accepts the offer of the death of Odin as payment and the disgusted pity that accompanies it.  
  
   Laufey looks through the lie, and sees his son. He has no greater gift to give than his throne, free of guilt and shame. Free of _Asgard_ , an earning his son gains by his own merit. He knows his blood, his child Loptr..this Loki, will not hesitate. There are worse endings.  
     
   Laufey looks down on his enemy, looks down on Odin’s helpless husk, and feels no pity. He looks down on Odin and knows his strike will never hit its mark. He looks down on Odin and knows his words to be true - Odin’s death _has come_ , and it was set in motion by Laufey long ago, in a burst of heat, wet and pain; in a choice made before a first breath was taken; in the forgotten depths of Farbauti’s smile.  
  

   Though nothing of it shows in words or actions, as gold eclipses his vision, Laufey feels pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long pause between chapters. I will try to do better. Thank you to those who stuck around and I hope this makes the wait worth it. Concrit welcome!


	4. Frail Bonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Norns are ever cruel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The promised final chapter - sorry for such a long wait!

     “We know who you are,” Laufey says, and they have no way of knowing how true it is. “You have no idea what your actions would bring.” he cautions, and is grimly amused at how the golden pup barks and postures, insensible to the smallest of mercies Laufey provides him. Determined to speak to Laufey as though Laufey is his thrall; as though Laufey owes him anything, in his own kingdom, but disgust and death. _This_ one would bring disaster all on his own, if allowed unchecked - he was the very spirit of a younger Odin. The boy was raised at the feet of Frigga of Vanaheim; despite the Alfar's whispers, Laufey had expected better.

    From the Silvertongue, polite words and diplomacy as fitting of a Prince when speaking to a King; awe and fright in equal measure as he beheld the ruins of What Was. So, he had been taught to fear Jotnar in greater measure than his companions. Unsurprising. Were the group of Aesir children not so offensive, so unwelcome, Laufey might have been - not _kinder_ \- but perhaps more lenient.

   It tried more of Laufey’s patience than he had thought possible, to listen to the elder Prince’s entitled rant, while paying most attention to the younger. Unfathomable - how Laufey had yearned for this day, gnashed his teeth over what might have been _if only_ ; raged and plotted over retaking the life and lineage stolen from him, from them all!

   It’s clear from the way the younger Prince bows his head when told to ‘know his place’ by his supposed-brother and by the lack of shock or affront from his companions at such indelicacy, what Odin’s machinations have wrought. How cruel this jest is; how merciless the Norns are! To one raised Jotun, it would be unthinkable that a mage of such status was lesser than a son of Asgard, simply by virtue of birth. That he should bow his head and be shamed to speak his truth. Even in these dark days, had both these two been born to the line of Laufey, the balance of power would weigh on the younger’s side, not his dully demanding siblings'.

   He is -not glad, but dimly pleased - then, to think that perhaps the Norns have been kind in their dark way. Perhaps his child’s wrath will be righteous, pure and unsullied by something as base as the hubris which he knows drives his own heart.  What words there could have been, melt away when a warrior is too easy with his insults, and Odins Berserker shows his true face. There is no time, and before Laufey can claim what is his, Odin Kinslayer steals it away again.

   Next time, Laufey will be ready.

 


End file.
